PEASANTS 



When Michael John Cronin stole the funds of the Carricknabreena
Hurling, Football and Temperance Association, commonly called the
Club, everyone said: “Devil’s cure to him!” “’Tis the price of him!”
“Kind father for him!” “What did I tell you?” and the rest of the
things people say when an acquaintance has got what is coming to him.

And not only Michael John but the whole Cronin family, seed, breed,
and generation, came in for it; there wasn’t one of them for twenty
miles round or a hundred years back but his deeds and sayings were
remembered and examined by the light of this fresh scandal. Michael
John’s father (the heavens be his bed!) was a drunkard who beat his
wife, and his father before him a land-grabber. Then there was an
uncle or grand-uncle who had been a policeman and taken a hand in the
bloody work at Mitchelstown long ago, and an unmarried sister of the
same whose good name it would by all accounts have needed a regiment
of husbands to restore. It was a grand shaking-up the Cronins got
altogether, and anyone who had a grudge in for them, even if it was no
more than a thirty-third cousin, had rare sport, dropping a friendly
word about it and saying how sorry he was for the poor mother till he
had the blood lighting in the Cronin eyes.

There was only one thing for them to do with Michael John; that was to
send him to America and let the thing blow over, and that, no doubt,
is what they would have done but for a certain unpleasant and
extraordinary incident.

Father Crowley, the parish priest, was chairman of the committee. He
was a remarkable man, even in appearance; tall, powerfully built, but
very stooped, with shrewd, loveless eyes that rarely softened to
anyone except two or three old people. He was a strange man, well on
in years, noted for his strong political views, which never happened
to coincide with those of any party, and as obstinate as the devil
himself. Now what should Father Crowley do but try to force the
committee to prosecute Michael John?

The committee were all religious men who up to this had never as much
as dared to question the judgments of a man of God: yes, faith, and if
the priest had been a bully, which to give him his due he wasn’t, he
might have danced a jig on their backs and they wouldn’t have
complained. But a man has principles, and the like of this had never
been heard of in the parish before. What? Put the police on a boy and
he in trouble?

One by one the committee spoke up and said so. “But he did wrong,”
said Father Crowley, thumping the table. “He did wrong and he should
be punished.”

“Maybe so, father,” said Con Norton, the vice-chairman, who acted as
spokesman. “Maybe you’re right, but you wouldn’t say his poor mother
should be punished too and she a widow-woman?”

“True for you!” chorused the others.

“Serve his mother right!” said the priest shortly. “There’s none of
you but knows better than I do the way that young man was brought
up. He’s a rogue and his mother is a fool. Why didn’t she beat
Christian principles into him when she had him on her knee?”

“That might be, too,” Norton agreed mildly. “I wouldn’t say but you’re
right, but is that any reason his Uncle Peter should be punished?”

“Or his Uncle Dan?” asked another.

“Or his Uncle James?” asked a third.

“Or his cousins, the Dwyers, that keep the little shop in
Lissnacarriga, as decent a living family as there is in County Cork?”
asked a fourth.

“No, father,” said Norton, “the argument is against you.”

“Is it indeed?” exclaimed the priest, growing cross. “Is it so? What
the devil has it to do with his Uncle Dan or his Uncle James? What are
ye talking about? What punishment is it to them, will ye tell me that?
Ye’ll be telling me next ’tis a punishment to me and I a child of
Adam like himself.”

“Wisha now, father,” asked Norton incredulously, “do you mean ’tis no
punishment to them having one of their own blood made a public show?
Is it mad you think we are? Maybe ’tis a thing you’d like done to
yourself?”

“There was none of my family ever a thief,” replied Father Crowley
shortly.

“Begor, we don’t know whether there was or not,” snapped a little man
called Daly, a hot-tempered character from the hills.

“Easy, now! Easy, Phil!” said Norton warningly.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Father Crowley, rising and grabbing
his hat and stick.

“What I mean,” said Daly, blazing up, “is that I won’t sit here and
listen to insinuations about my native place from any foreigner. There
are as many rogues and thieves and vagabonds and liars in Cullough as
ever there were in Carricknabreena—ay, begod, and more, and bigger!
That’s what I mean.”

“No, no, no, no,” Norton said soothingly. “That’s not what he means at
all, father. We don’t want any bad blood between Cullough and
Carricknabreena. What he means is that the Crowleys may be a fine
substantial family in their own country, but that’s fifteen long miles
away, and this isn’t their country, and the Cronins are neighbours of
ours since the dawn of history and time, and ’twould be a very queer
thing if at this hour we handed one of them over to the
police. ...And now, listen to me, father,” he went on, forgetting
his role of pacificator and hitting the table as hard as the rest, “if
a cow of mine got sick in the morning, ’tisn’t a Cremin or a Crowley
I’d be asking for help, and damn the bit of use ’twould be to me if I
did. And everyone knows I’m no enemy of the Church but a respectable
farmer that pays his dues and goes to his duties regularly.”

“True for you! True for you!” agreed the committee.

“I don’t give a snap of my finger what you are,” retorted the
priest. “And now listen to me, Con Norton. I bear young Cronin no
grudge, which is more than some of you can say, but I know my duty and
I’ll do it in spite of the lot of you.”

He stood at the door and looked back. They were gazing blankly at one
another, not knowing what to say to such an impossible man. He shook
his fist at them.

“Ye all know me,” he said. “Ye know that all my life I’m fighting the
long-tailed families. Now, with the help of God, I’ll shorten the tail
of one of them.”

Father Crowley’s threat frightened them. They knew he was an obstinate
man and had spent his time attacking what he called the “corruption”
of councils and committees, which was all very well as long as it
happened outside your own parish. They dared not oppose him openly
because he knew too much about all of them and, in public at least,
had a lacerating tongue. The solution they favoured was a tactful
one. They formed themselves into a Michael John Cronin Fund Committee
and canvassed the parishioners for subscriptions to pay off what
Michael John had stolen. Regretfully they decided that Father Crowley
would hardly countenance a football match for the purpose.

Then with the defaulting treasurer, who wore a suitably contrite air,
they marched up to the presbytery. Father Crowley was at his dinner
but he told the housekeeper to show them in. He looked up in
astonishment as his dining-room filled with the seven committeemen,
pushing before them the cowed Michael John.

“Who the blazes are ye?” he asked, glaring at them over the lamp.

“We’re the Club Committee, father,” replied Norton.

“Oh, are ye?”

“And this is the treasurer—the ex-treasurer, I should say.”

“I won’t pretend I’m glad to see him,” said Father Crowley grimly.

“He came to say he’s sorry, father,” went on Norton. “He is sorry, and
that’s as true as God, and I’ll tell you no lie. ...” Norton made two
steps forward and in a dramatic silence laid a heap of notes and
silver on the table.

“What’s that?” asked Father Crowley.

“The money, father. ’Tis all paid back now and there’s nothing more
between us. Any little crossness there was, we’ll say no more about
it, in the name of God.”

The priest looked at the money and then at Norton.

“Con,” he said, “you’d better keep the soft word for the judge. Maybe
he’ll think more of it than I do.”

“The judge, father?”

“Ay, Con, the judge.”

There was a long silence. The committee stood with open mouths, unable
to believe it.

“And is that what you’re doing to us, father?” asked Norton in a
trembling voice. “After all the years, and all we done for you, is it
you’re going to show us up before the whole country as a lot of
robbers?”

“Ah, ye idiots, I’m not showing ye up.”

“You are then, father, and you’re showing up every man, woman, and
child in the parish,” said Norton. “And mark my words, ’twon’t be
forgotten for you.”

The following Sunday Father Crowley spoke of the matter from the
altar. He spoke for a full half hour without a trace of emotion on his
grim old face, but his sermon was one long, venomous denunciation of
the “long-tailed families” who, according to him, were the ruination
of the country and made a mockery of truth, justice, and charity. He
was, as his congregation agreed, a shockingly obstinate old man who
never knew when he was in the wrong.

After Mass he was visited in his sacristy by the committee. He gave
Norton a terrible look from under his shaggy eyebrows, which made that
respectable farmer flinch.

“Father,” Norton said appealingly, “we only want one word with
you. One word and then we’ll go. You’re a hard character, and you said
some bitter things to us this morning; things we never deserved from
you. But we’re quiet, peaceable poor men and we don’t want to cross
you.”

Father Crowley made a sound like a snort.

“We came to make a bargain with you, father,” said Norton, beginning
to smile.

“A bargain?”

“We’ll say no more about the whole business if you’ll do one little
thing—just one little thing—to oblige us.”

“The bargain!” the priest said impatiently. “What’s the bargain?”

“We’ll leave the matter drop for good and all if you’ll give the boy a
character.”

“Yes, father,” cried the committee in chorus. “Give him a character!
Give him a character!”

“Give him a what?” cried the priest.

“Give him a character, father, for the love of God,” said Norton
emotionally. “If you speak up for him, the judge will leave him off
and there’ll be no stain on the parish.”

“Is it out of your minds you are, you halfwitted angashores?” asked
Father Crowley, his face suffused with blood, his head
trembling. “Here am I all these years preaching to ye about decency
and justice and truth and ye no more understand me than that wall
there. Is it the way ye want me to perjure myself? Is it the way ye
want me to tell a damned lie with the name of Almighty God on my lips?
Answer me, is it?”

“Ah, what perjure!” Norton replied wearily. “Sure, can’t you say a few
words for the boy? No one is asking you to say much. What harm will it
do you to tell the judge he’s an honest, good-living, upright lad, and
that he took the money without meaning any harm?”

“My God!” muttered the priest, running his hands distractedly through
his grey hair. “There’s no talking to ye, no talking to ye, ye lot of
sheep.”

When he was gone the committeemen turned and looked at one another in
bewilderment.

“That man is a terrible trial,” said one.

“He’s a tyrant,” said Daly vindictively.

“He is, indeed,” sighed Norton, scratching his head. “But in God’s
holy name, boys, before we do anything, we’ll give him one more
chance.”

That evening when he was at his tea the committeemen called
again. This time they looked very spruce, businesslike, and
independent. Father Crowley glared at them.

“Are ye back?” he asked bitterly. “I was thinking ye would be. I
declare to my goodness, I’m sick of ye and yeer old committee.”

“Oh, we’re not the committee, father,” said Norton stiffly.

“Ye’re not?”

“We’re not.”

“All I can say is, ye look mighty like it. And, if I’m not being
impertinent, who the deuce are ye?”

“We’re a deputation, father.”

“Oh, a deputation! Fancy that, now. And a deputation from what?”

“A deputation from the parish, father. Now, maybe you’ll listen to
us.”

“Oh, go on! I’m listening, I’m listening.”

“Well, now, ’tis like this, father,” said Norton, dropping his airs
and graces and leaning against the table. “’Tis about that little
business this morning. Now, father, maybe you don’t understand us and
we don’t understand you. There’s a lot of misunderstanding in the
world today, father. But we’re quiet simple poor men that want to do
the best we can for everybody, and a few words or a few pounds
wouldn’t stand in our way. Now, do you follow me?”

“I declare,” said Father Crowley, resting his elbows on the table, “I
don’t know whether I do or not.”

“Well, ’tis like this, father. We don’t want any blame on the parish
or on the Cronins, and you’re the one man that can save us. Now all we
ask of you is to give the boy a character—”

“Yes, father,” interrupted the chorus, “give him a character! Give him
a character!”

“Give him a character, father, and you won’t be troubled by him
again. Don’t say no to me now till you hear what I have to say. We
won’t ask you to go next, nigh or near the court. You have pen and ink
beside you and one couple of lines is all you need write. When ’tis
over you can hand Michael John his ticket to America and tell him not
to show his face in Carricknabreena again. There’s the price of his
ticket, father,” he added, clapping a bundle of notes on the
table. “The Cronins themselves made it up, and we have his mother’s
word and his own word that he’ll clear out the minute ’tis all over.”

“He can go to pot!” retorted the priest. “What is it to me where he
goes?”

“Now, father, can’t you be patient?” Norton asked reproachfully.
“Can’t you let me finish what I’m saying? We know ’tis no advantage to
you, and that’s the very thing we came to talk about. Now,
supposing—just supposing for the sake of argument—that you do what we
say, there’s a few of us here, and between us, we’d raise whatever
little contribution to the parish fund you’d think would be reasonable
to cover the expense and trouble to yourself. Now do you follow me?”

“Con Norton,” said Father Crowley, rising and holding the edge of the
table, “I follow you. This morning it was perjury, and now ’tis
bribery, and the Lord knows what ’twill be next. I see I’ve been
wasting my breath. ... And I see too,” he added savagely, leaning
across the table towards them, “a pedigree bull would be more use to
ye than a priest.”

“What do you mean by that, father?” asked Norton in a low voice.

“What I say.”

“And that’s a saying that will be remembered for you the longest day
you live,” hissed Norton, leaning towards him till they were glaring
at one another over the table.

“A bull,” gasped Father Crowley. “Not a priest.”

“’Twill be remembered.”

“Will it? Then remember this too. I’m an old man now. I’m forty years
a priest, and I’m not a priest for the money or power or glory of it,
like others I know. I gave the best that was in me—maybe ’twasn’t
much but ’twas more than many a better man would give, and at the end
of my days...” lowering his voice to a whisper he searched them
with his terrible eyes, “...at the end of my days, if I did a wrong
thing, or a bad thing, or an unjust thing, there isn’t man or woman in
this parish that would brave me to my face and call me a villain. And
isn’t that a poor story for an old man that tried to be a good
priest?” His voice changed again and he raised his head
defiantly. “Now get out before I kick you out!”

And true to his word and character not one word did he say in Michael
John’s favour the day of the trial, no more than if he was a
black. Three months Michael John got and by all accounts he got off
light.

He was a changed man when he came out of jail, downcast and dark in
himself. Everyone was sorry for him, and people who had never spoken
to him before spoke to him then. To all of them he said modestly: “I’m
very grateful to you, friend, for overlooking my misfortune.” As he
wouldn’t go to America, the committee made another whip-round and
between what they had collected before and what the Cronins had made
up to send him to America, he found himself with enough to open a
small shop. Then he got a job in the County Council, and an agency for
some shipping company, till at last he was able to buy a public-house.

As for Father Crowley, till he was shifted twelve months later, he
never did a day’s good in the parish. The dues went down and the
presents went down, and people with money to spend on Masses took it
fifty miles away sooner than leave it to him. They said it broke his
heart.

He has left unpleasant memories behind him. Only for him, people say,
Michael John would be in America now. Only for him he would never have
married a girl with money, or had it to lend to poor people in the
hard times, or ever sucked the blood of Christians. For, as an old man
said to me of him: “A robber he is and was, and a grabber like his
grandfather before him, and an enemy of the people like his uncle, the
policeman; and though some say he’ll dip his hand where he dipped it
before, for myself I have no hope unless the mercy of God would send
us another Moses or Brian Boru to cast him down and hammer him in the
dust.” 


(1935)